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Body Language

Yesterday I went to my lovely and local beauty Spa for a mani / pedi. I was lying back, my feet were being scrubbed, we were chatting, having fun, choosing colours, when suddenly a gorgeous guy walked in.

Gorgeous but definitely dodgy.

I tensed immediately. I thought about my phone lying there in full view of any thief, as well as my purse. All of us women had stuff splayed all over the place.

We were women, armed only with body scrubs, cuticle oils and nail polishes.

He approached the hair stylist. She was between appointments, sitting on the couch, her gorgeous legs splayed out in front of her, her tattoo clearly visible on her right thigh.

Her right thigh clearly visible.

He sat in front of her. Didn’t ask if he could, didn’t say anything, just took a seat.

Like a boss. A dodgy one.

She was cool.

My nail therapist was also cool.

So I chose to be cool too. Well, semi cool. My heart was pounding and my exfoliated toes trembling, if just a little.

I surreptitiously moved my phone, pushed my bag under the chair and armed myself with a nail polish.

Vinylux. Fire Engine Red.

The stylist didn’t move. She didn’t shift position, didn’t pull her dress down over her thigh, didn’t show that she was in fact not cool in the least.

They had a conversation. We couldn’t hear much except she was so calm, we thought oh, maybe she does know him after all.

She didn’t. But her confidence, the way she looked him in the eye when he spoke, her street-smart demeanour, her swag, her savvy and her body language, clearly got to him.

He left. And when he left, she breathed out. She told us she’d been aware of his every movement, his every word, his every intention. She’d been watching him like a hawk. And had he tried anything, she told us, ANYTHING, she was ready to punch him so hard.

Apparently she has a great punch.

I learned something yesterday.

Not to show fear. Not to show vulnerability in those kind of situations. And to meet the guy on his own level, whatever that means.